


Don't Feed the Trolls

by wishesgoverybad



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Hunting, M/M, PTSD, Purgatory, References to Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Trolls, Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-05
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-14 02:17:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/831574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wishesgoverybad/pseuds/wishesgoverybad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean go trolling post-Purgatory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, destielicious for being incredibly encouraging and helping me enjoy writing again!

As soon as he saw the photo from the crime scene, he knew no bear could have done it.  He’d seen this type of attack before, in a place without bears.

“Sam, we’ve got to go to Wyoming,” he said with an unintentional growl.  He twisted the laptop for his brother to see.

Sam wiped some crumbs off his hands before mousing through the article,“This doesn’t look like our kind of thing.  There’s not even a body.”

Dean clenched his jaw and tried not to glare.  He expected his brother question the trip and the case.  It was fair for him to want some sort of explanation before they drove through the night to the middle of nowhere, but while Dean understood that, he also wasn’t up for Sam’s concerned puppy dog eyes and probing questions.  He inhaled slowly, “It’s a troll.”

Sam sat back in his chair and scoffed, “A troll?”

“Look, I know, they’re rare, no confirmed sightings in 30 years, but this is a troll and not the kind that spams your Asks because you don’t ship the right ship.”

“Okay,” Sam spoke slowly, “Look, half of that didn’t even make sense, but assuming this is a troll, how could you possibly know that?  There’s nothing in Dad’s journal and the closest we’ve ever come to even knowing they are real was listening to some drunk at The Roadhouse embellish his greatest hits.”

Dean made a small sound and looked at his hands.  They were in a crappy diner like every other crappy diner sitting at a table with enamel from the 1960s on the top and five decades of pre-chewed gum stuck to the bottom.  He absently picked at part of the enamel that was losing its adhesive.  To be in a place with a table, with warm food and actual chairs...

He bit his lip and looked up, “Purgatory.”  He said it simply, but there they were: the doe eyes and the wrinkled forehead and the deep inhalation that let Dean know Sam was about to ever-so-quietly ask him a question he wouldn’t want to answer.  He cleared his throat before Sam could gather momentum.  “Let’s go,” he said throwing some bills on the table and made for the door.  It closed with a slam behind him.

By the time Sam got to the Impala, he knew the moment was gone.  Dean sat at the wheel looking straight ahead like an Olympic sprinter on start blocks.  He went through the motions of starting the car, and pulling out into traffic, but Sam knew Dean wasn’t all there.  He recognized that look from the year after Dean was in the pit, a look that had gone away sometime during all the mayhem that had followed them, but it was back with a vengeance since Purgatory.  It was a look that made Sam understand why his brother drank.

Dean felt it, too, when part of him slipped out of phase with the present..  There was a sudden slowing, a dislocation from time and space and then--

 

From the moment he zapped there, everything about Purgatory seemed like it bit him in the face.  The air, the colors, the freezing rain, and of course all the actual monsters vying to bite him in the face if they had a hairbreadth opportunity.  Purgatory seeped into his bones like the spitting rain and he could taste it bitter in his throat, the taste of adrenaline and dirt and leaving your toothbrush in an alternate dimension.  The taste overwhelmed him in the days following Benny’s two-step into the never-ending martial dance of Dean’s Purgatory existence.  He hadn’t slept for any real amount of time since he’d arrived and it was beginning to wear him down.  He felt shaky and that bitterness on the back of his tongue made him want to vomit, not that he had much in his stomach to expel anyway.  It was twilight, a time when the daytime monsters and night stalkers were both up and at ‘em, ready to gnaw his face off.  He and Benny had been doing their best to avoid a nearby coterie of leviathan for the better half of the day, prowling through the forest wordlessly, when Benny held up his hand and muttered an almost inaudible curse.

“What?” demanded Dean, doing his best to project his aggravation without alerting any nearby nightmares as to their whereabouts.

Benny turned to him, tight lipped, “Trolls.”  

 

“Dean.  Dean!”  Sam whacked his shoulder with the back of his hand.  “Dude, we needed to take that exit.”

Dean snapped back into himself.  He squeezed the steering wheel as if to make sure it was really beneath his hands.  “Right.”  He cleared his throat,  “I’ll take the next one.”

“So...ah...trolls...” Sam prompted.

“Right.  Trolls.”  The metallic taste of Purgatory lingered, and he swallowed hard to push it down, back into the depths of his soul, where it belonged.  He was home. Dean relaxed his grip on the wheel.  It was time to think about this like any other case and Sam needed the basics.  “So, you’re familiar with the lore, right?”

“Sure...they’re primarily Norse,  they eat people, they hate sunlight, they like bridges, they live in the wilderness, they turn to stone in sunlight. Let’s see...most people think they’ve been hunted to the brink of extinction because they’re so dim-witted...and, finally, they are drawn to the smell of ‘the blood of a Christian man.’”

“You been boning up on your troll lore for the exam?  When did you have time to do research?”

“I’ve been doing it right next to you for the past three hours, Dean.”

“On your laptop?  You realize we’re driving right?  How the hell do you even have a wireless connection?  Dude, that is not natural.”

Sam gave an exasperated sigh and pushed his hair behind his ear, “Can we get back to the trolls?”

Dean rocked his head back and forth feeling the tightness in his muscles after a night of driving. He tried to organize his thoughts into something coherent and useful for Sam.  How had Benny explained things as they ran through underbrush and old growth forest?  Like, yes, trolls would turn into stone in sunlight, but that wasn’t the only way to kill them.  And, no, they weren’t stupid.  In fact, Dean explained to Sam, they hunted in teams and seemed to have an elaborate communication system that relied on vibrations in the ground which they could feel with their bare feet.  

“Like elephants? You’ve got to be kidding.” Sam asked, eyebrows raised.

Dean waved him off and tried to impress the importance of this system; trolls needed to keep in contact with the ground, or they were cut off from communication.  Benny had pointed this out to Dean as he gasped for breath jogging along a narrow werewolf path in the impending gloom.  Dean felt the memory tug at him, and he rubbed the heel of his hand against his face where a stray twig had drawn blood.  No, he told himself, this was important; he had to fill Sam in on the details.  He had to stay in the present.

After exploring hunting strategies Dean tried to break down how trolls managed to conceal their true numbers by swapping out human babies with troll babies.

“Like cuckoos?” Sam scoffed shaking his head.  Dean wondered how much Animal Planet his little brother had been forced to watch with Amelia.

Human parents often had no idea they were raising a troll even after kid disappeared, usually around puberty, when trollish characteristics began to become more noticeable.  After puberty, the cycle started again for the next generation.  Procreation was serious business for trolls, especially as they had to kidnap and replace the humans without ever arousing suspicion. So serious, they went through their mating ritual even in Purgatory, where no one was making any babies.  In any event, It was a major investment in time and energy, and a troll wouldn’t risk a kill like the one Dean spotted in the paper unless it was the start of a breeding cycle.

“Ok, fascinating.” Sam said, apparently out of animal analogies.  “Why does any of this mean we have to haul it to Wyoming in the middle of the night?”

“Because when a troll...has babies, it, you know, has babies.  Like fourteen of them,”  Dean could see his brother tilt his head while he mulled this over.  “Like kittens,” Dean offered helpfully, earning himself a glare from his brother.

“So...we’re looking for an obscenely pregnant she-troll?”

Dean paused uncomfortably, “Not...not exactly....uh.  See...with trolls the females...uh...deposit the babies with the males.”

“What?” Sam’s voice was higher than usual.

“Yeah, she...uh...makes a kill, presents it to the male and if he accepts, they...you know...and then he’ll let her deposit the babies in this male womb, like this moist cavern and you know...he gets knocked up.”

“Wait, wait...like a seahorse?”

“Dude, I don’t know if freaking guy seahorses have moist caverns where lady seahorses can drop her load because I watch porn instead of Wild America.  What I do know is that when it comes to trolls the dudes get pregnant.  It’s like monster mpreg.” Dean shouted testily.  

Sam took a breath and turned to Dean, “Ok, one: please never say the words ‘moist cavern’ again. Two: What type of porn are you into?”

Dean cocked his head toward the driver’s side window and smirked to himself as they sped westward.


	2. Chapter 2

Whenever Dean closed his eyes he saw the underbrush rushing toward him, wet leaves smacking him. He was always running, running, running. Even when he managed to find a safe place to hunker down and snatch some sleep, he was still running. And now that he was home he was running still.  
Benny had been there for almost 50 years and knew the terrain much better than Dean could have hoped to, so Benny often led, but for the time being that was all the trust Dean could put in him. In this case, Benny occasionally paused to shout back tidbits of troll information. Dean tried to keep up in every possible sense.  
When Benny held up his hand and stopped, alert, ready, Dean had no idea how long they’d been running. Darkness enveloped them and Dean was feeling more than a little vulnerable. He listened for sounds of pursuit, and when he heard nothing, he allowed the smallest part of himself to relax. He turned his face upward and opened his mouth to the mix of rain and snow that had pounded them for hours. The droplets muted the bitterness in his throat, but when he closed his mouth and leveled his head, he felt nauseous again. Benny was kneeling and palming the ground quietly just a few feet away.  
“We’ve got to climb...”  
Dean nodded.  
“They’re coming for you,” Benny said in a matter of fact way that made Dean wonder if he had plans to disappear and leave the trolls some dinner.  
“Everything’s coming for me,” Dean replied, feeling like the sentiment was true regardless of his dimension.  
“No, I mean they can smell you. If they have your scent they’ll be coming for you eventually.” Benny put a hand behind his neck and rubbed nervously.  
Dean stared at Benny for a moment. “What’s so special about ode de me?”  
“Well you’re a living, breathing human for one,” Benny moved slowly between tree trunks as he spoke. “Plus you’re a believer who’s covered in blood. Trolls love the smell of a man who has faith.”  
Dean lowered his head subtly and looked for Benny in the darkness.  
“I’ve seen you pray to him, brother,”  
“I know he can hear me. That’s hardly faith,” Dean countered. He was already uncomfortably with praying, and even more so knowing Benny had eavesdropped. Prayer made him feel exposed in a way standing still on a moonless night in the middle of the monster afterlife while being actively hunted by trolls couldn’t even begin to touch.  
Benny stopped at a tree. Dean could barely make him out as he patted it purposefully. Benny turned to him, teeth somehow gleaming in the night, “If it’s not faith, what is it?” 

 

Dean woke with a gasp, hand on his weapon before his eyes were open. Sam hardly flinched--he’d come to expect Dean’s violent awakenings. Of course Dean never said anything, that was par for the course with Dean, but there wasn’t much left for them to hide from one another. It was tiring, exhausting, really, dancing around, watching Dean pretend to be fine. Pretending not to notice that he wasn’t. And Sam got it, he did. He had his own experience with nightmares that wouldn’t end.  
Dean’s eyes had focused on the hideous wallpaper and he turned to sit at the edge of his bed, mattress springs squeaking in protest. He gently lay the Purgatory axe back under the pillow and cleared his throat.  
“You okay, man?” Sam asked, seeing Dean come off red alert.  
“Fine,” he stood slowly, rubbing his eyes and grabbed some water bottles out of the mini-fridge. He absently tossed one to Sam.  
“How long are we going to do this for, Dean?” As soon as he spoke, he regretted it. Pushing Dean never got anyone anywhere. His brother was like the ultimate Chinese Finger Trap, and Sam should have known not to fight whatever was going on with him.  
Dean pinched the bridge of his nose and turned back to the mini-fridge. He opened it, resting his elbow on the door, studying the assortment of tiny bottles inside. With a resigned sigh, he reclosed it and turned back to Sam.  
“I’m gonna grab a shower and then we roll. We’ve got work to do,” He grabbed a pile of clothes and stalked into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.  
Sam scoffed and shook his head. Apparently, whatever they were doing, they were going to do it for a while longer.


	3. Chapter 3

Unamused by their last foray into the woods when Wendigo hunting, Sam insisted they rent proper backpacking gear this time. Dean wasn’t entirely comfortable with the number of granola bars Sam had purchased, but he had to admit lugging weapons around in a rucksack was preferable to lugging them around in a duffel when you were hiking 10 miles.  
Dean knew the hike into the campsite would be rough. He didn’t exactly find walks through the woods relaxing anymore and every squirrel hopping through leaf litter made him feel like drawing his gun. He had to keep it together, though, or Sam would probably pull out a guitar from his pack and insist they sing kumbaya and talk about “it” and what was there to say?  
Dean cleared his throat, “What can you tell me about the vic?” he asked to keep his mind off the trees.  
Sam pushed his hair out of his face and shifted the weight of his pack, “Well, uhm, her name was Mary Sue Tyler, she was 23, graduate of the University of Chicago. Looks like she had a pretty promising career...she was a White House intern, but then left to pursue acting.”  
“I guess she was looking for a more honest profession?” Dean quipped, “The world needs more Mary Sues.”  
Sam clenched his jaw and seemed to concentrate on making his face look pleasant despite his irritation, “Why does it even matter, Dean?”  
“What?”  
“I mean, why do we need to know about Mary Sue? It’s not like we’re looking for a connection between victims. It’s not like we need to profile anything or find a curse object. From what you said, trolls are just looking for someone easy to pick off so they can feed their young,” Sam had stopped walking and was facing Dean, seemingly sensing he was getting close to something Dean wouldn’t want to talk about.   
“I don’t know. Maybe there’s something we’re missing,” Dean shrugged.  
“Dean--”  
“Forget it, let’s move. I don’t like standing around. We’ve got work to do.”  
“Dean--” Sam started again, but Dean had already stalked off, leaving Sam to stare at the vacant space where his brother had once stood.

 

When they were done climbing, Dean finally couldn’t take the bitterness in his throat. He struggled to keep his balance on a wet branch while heaving vomit laced with bile onto the ground below. He wasn’t afraid of heights, but scaling the tree with Benny had been unpleasant. For all the glitter and hair gel, Dean couldn’t believe the Twilight movies had nailed vampiric tree climbing accurately. Frankly, experiencing it with Benny had not been high on his to-do list, but he was also pretty sure it hadn’t been a hurl-worthy roller coaster ride.  
Benny perched a few feet away, watching silently as Dean spat the remnants of his stomach contents overboard, “It’s not just that you’re a man of faith,” Benny drew out the words carefully. “It’s that you’re in withdrawal.”  
Dean sat backward, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist, and wrinkled his face as he turned to Benny. “Withdrawal?” He asked with pronounced disbelief. “Withdrawal from Cas?”  
Benny shot Dean a sharp look for a beat before shaking his head in despair, “You stink.”  
Dean groaned irritably, wiping the perspiration of his face, “Thanks, pal.”  
“No, Dean, I mean you stink. Every vamp and werewolf in this forest knows you’re here. To the trolls you’re a man of faith reeking of adrenaline. You couldn’t be easier to find if you were on fire.”  
“Well, it’s been a tough couple days, getting chased by monsters that want to eat my face non-stop,” Dean quipped.  
“No. You know that’s not all. Even if you didn’t stink to high heaven I’d know the look. I know I saw it on my daddy plenty.” Benny glanced from under the brim of his hat. “I bet you saw it on yours.”  
Dean closed his eyes, stomach churning, head resting against the damp bark of the tree trunk, grateful for its coolness against his skin. A memory wormed its way into his consciousness from the bottom of his skull--the smell of something sweet and salty and stagnant. It wasn’t the smell of the puke in the bucket next to the couch of a disturbingly similar shade of green, it was the smell of the sweat sheened across Dad’s body. Back then, Dean puzzled over the term “drying out,” when everything about these times seemed to be fluid. Especially the swimming right back into the booze after days of wading through puke and sweat and a clamminess he now recognized on his own skin.  
He opened his eyes, glassy from the effort of remembering and his stomach’s earlier upheaval. “Yeah,” he said huskily, “I know.”


	4. Chapter 4

When they arrived at the campsite, Dean pulled out the camping stove and boiled water while trying to decide how to make any of the dehydrated, freeze-dried foods Sam had loaded into their packs palatable. Sam watched him quietly, recalling the countless times Dean metaphorically set up camp when they opened the door on their latest stale-smelling hovel. As a kid, he’d opened all the cupboards and checked the cookware before boiling Spaghettios or mixing up some Hamburger Helper and clanking it down in front of his father and little brother. Sam shook his head with a scoff and turned away to slowly walk the perimeter. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was looking for, especially since it had been some time since the attack--long enough for the site to be used by the public again, but not long enough for vegetation, matted by dozens of search and rescue footfalls, to have made a recovery. Sam stopped at the base of a pine tree and ran his hands over some torn bark, a silent memorial to Mary Sue’s struggle for survival. Sighing, he turned back toward Dean, pausing when something metallic caught his eye. He kicked away a few trampled leaves and picked up a tiny, golden Star of David.  
“Check this out,” Sam said, walking toward Dean.  
Dean busily stirred a rice and bean concoction as he glanced up, allowing his eyes to linger for a moment on the star, “Hmm.”  
Sam brushed his hair behind his ear, “When we were talking about troll lore, you skipped over ‘the blood of a Christian man’ bit.”  
“Come on, troopers were all over here, it’s probably not even hers,” Dean suddenly seemed particularly absorbed in stirring as he avoided Sam’s gaze.  
Sam mulled for a moment and then scoffed lightly, “It’s not Christianity, it’s faith. It’s just that by the time the lore got written down, Christianity was the main religion. That’s why you were asking about Mary Sue--you were wondering how strong her faith was.”  
“Look, man, I’m kind of in the middle of cooking fast and fresh, here, if you don’t mind.”  
Sam had caught a scent of his own, though, and Dean could tell he wasn’t about to let it go. Sam set his shoulders and glowered. Truth be told, they’d both been partners in this dance so many times Dean wasn’t even sure why he tried to keep anything from Sam; Sam always knew when something was eating at him, and he always managed to weasel that something out of him. Dean knew it was only a matter of time, but until Sam pushed and pushed, he didn’t seem to know how to say the words.  
“Dean,” Sam said, doe eyes on full force, “Please.”  
“Yes, okay?” Dean spat it out as quickly as he could, but then slowed himself. “It’s the scent of all kinds of good things: Faith, hope...” he trailed off looking first at the ground and then, tentatively, at Sam.  
Sam wasn’t sure what to make of the look on his brother’s face. He saw a glimpse of an ache he couldn’t quite name, and then the mask was back and Dean’s eyes slid away, leaving the last word unsaid but hanging in the air.  
Dean busied himself by ladling his rice and bean concoction into their mess kits. Sam knew pressing Dean further would shut him down, as it had in the hotel room, so he waited, hoping Dean would relax again as he took a tentative bite of their supper, “Wow, this isn’t half bad.”  
Dean gave Sam a sideways smile and settled against a tree to dig in himself.  
“Benny said it was because I prayed,” he explained in between mouthfuls. “Or maybe it was the adrenaline. Or my humanity. Who knows?”  
“Sounds like Benny might have been just making it up as he went along,” Sam countered, having immediately bristled at Benny’s name.  
“Maybe,” conceded Dean, chewing thoughtfully, “but he kept me alive.”

 

“It’s going to get worse before it get’s better,” Benny offered unnecessarily.  
“Yeah. I know,” Dean repeated, eyes glassy from his stomach’s earlier upheaval.  
Benny made a wordless acknowledgement. Dean hung his head and folded himself inward.  
“You dry out and I’ll take care of it,” Benny motioned toward the ground. Below they could hear a low rumbling as the trolls approached.  
Dean looked at his shaking hands and swallowed. He closed his eyes and saw Sam, hungry-eyed, blood dripping from his chin. He recalled the ache in his knuckles from punching the panic room door as he heard his brother struggle with the restraints, shouting something unintelligible. Dean’s demon was a different flavor, but he’d stood on the outside enough to know it would be days before his feet were back on solid ground, literally and metaphorically.  
“You’re gonna have to trust me, little brother,” Benny said.  
Dean’s head snapped up, “What did you say to me?”  
“I said you’re going to have to trust me, brother.”  
Dean searched the outline of the vampire before finally giving his head a slight nod. He had no idea how Benny could have seen his assent in the inky night, but it was enough. Without another word, Benny dropped out of sight. Alone in the darkness of another dimension, Dean curled into the crook of a tree branch, considering himself a monster at the mercy of monsters.

He could already feel the dirt underneath him as he snapped awake and Dean silently cursed himself for being stupid enough to fall asleep in a clearing. Why hadn’t he found some place that offered more shelter? Where the hell was Benny? What was out there? His hand fell on his axe and he crouched, waiting for the inevitable attack. It didn’t come. Dean almost felt more disconcerted by the quiet than if he’d been pounced on by hungry werewolves. His heart pounded, his mouth cut by the persistent sour taste of running when he should be sleeping, and then he remembered--this was the plan.  
Sam had continued to voice doubts about what lured a troll to it’s prey, but Dean reasoned whatever lit their fire he had it. Or at least he had it in Purgatory.  
“You were the only human in Purgatory!” Sam protested. He had a point.  
Dean tiredly drew a hand over his face, “We’re in the middle of nowhere, Sam. It will have to do.”  
“Things might be completely different up here,” Sam pressed.  
“They are,” Dean allowed. He dropped his hand from his face and met Sam’s eyes, “But sometimes it doesn’t feel that way.”  
Sam opened and closed his mouth, swallowing deliberately as if he could force down all of the things Dean knew Sam always wanted to say and all of the things Dean knew there were no words for.  
“The nightmares...” he began. Dean almost imperceptibly shifted his weight, focusing on the forest floor before sliding his eyes to his brother’s face in tacit acknowledgement.  
Sam set his jaw, swiped his wayward bangs behind his ear and gave Dean a nod.

 

The plan wasn’t without it’s benefits, Dean reflected as he unsheathed his hunting knife and scraped the blade across his forearm, easily reopening the newly clotted wound. Part of it involved his brother squirreling away in the treetops, out of harm’s way. Lacking Benny’s climbing prowess, it had taken them the remainder of the day to hoist Sam into a tree, their progress hindered by Dean’s boisterous laughter at Sam’s clumsiness. Neither of them could remember the last time Dean had laughed so hard. Finally, they’d been successful and Sam had scrambled into an overhanging branch. Looking up, Dean felt relief knowing somewhere in the shadow of the wood, his brother perched, covered in bark burn and camouflaged under the smell of Dean’s blood. The trolls shouldn’t be able to feel him or smell him.  
 _Safe_. Dean prayed silently, reflexively, the word thrumming through him as constant as his pulse. _Please keep him safe_.  
And this was also part of the plan, at Sam’s insistence. If he agreed to be stuck up some tree, then Dean had to promise to go the whole nine yards to recreate the Purgatory Experience. That meant bleeding. Tasting adrenaline on his tongue. And praying.  
So much had happened in Purgatory, since Purgatory. So much was happening now. Dean was reluctant to articulate anything, especially now. Least of all in prayer. He folded his hands and looked to the sky helplessly. The moon had risen over the treetops, muting the light of the stars. Despite his still racing heart, Dean tried to focus, “Cas.”

From his roost in the trees, as Sam watched the moonlit lines of his brother’s upturned face, he recalled the night he’d happened upon Dean and his prom date, Rhonda. And, just as he’d done those many years ago, Sam quietly turned away, averting his eyes, allowing at least some of Dean’s secrets to remain unseen.


	5. Chapter 5

In Purgatory, the nights had been eerily silent. There had been some animals there, as far as Dean could tell, but now, straining his ears against the melodies of innumerable insects he felt a vague nostalgia for the hush of Purgatory. Although the place had run him ragged, slashing and clawing through leviathan, wendigos and parts of his own soul, in some ways it had been a welcome change. It was hard for Dean to obsess over Sam, or Cas, or all the ways he’d failed both of them when he was literally running for his life. At some point he’d shared this view with Benny, mused over the purity of the place--the peace it seemed to bring him in the middle of violence--but Benny just shook his head but then there was more running and slicing and blood spattering across his face.  
Back home, things had rapidly become more complicated, especially with Cas gone, and then back, and now gone again. Dean swallowed hard and allowed himself a long exhalation, the air whistling as he pushed it between his teeth.   
“Cas,” he said again, unsure of whether it was a prayer or lament.

He felt him without hearing the usual flutter of wings. The ache, throbbing in Dean’s chest ever since Cas blinked off, stilled and Dean spun around to face him, relief flooding his body.  
“Hello, Dean,” he said, voice shimmying down Dean’s spine.  
“Cas,” Dean relaxed his grip on the axe, “Where the hell have you been?”  
“I had a mission,” Cas replied cryptically. “What do you require?”  
Dean opened his mouth, sassy retort on the tip of his tongue, but faltered when he met the angel’s eyes. They bore into him, somehow more intense than usual, as if he were tapping Dean’s soul and the fierceness of his gaze sent a shiver through Dean. He’d missed that look.   
“I...I...” Dean stammered quietly. With great effort he turned his head. He could still feel the blue freezer burn of those irises searing his face. There were days when this was the only thing that made him feel real--the gooseflesh on his neck when Cas watched him, the heat in his chest when he knew those prodding eyes followed his movements, looking at him like he’d never been seen before. Maybe he hadn’t. Not really.   
“I’m luring in some trolls. They like a man with faith,” Dean seemed to flinch at the description he was giving of himself.   
“I see,” Cas responded, the words fell svelte against Dean’s ears and Dean wondered if he was just acknowledging the hunt, or if he’d chosen that moment to plumb Dean’s thoughts. The possibility whispered through his ribcage.  
Slowly, Dean ventured to look at Cas’ lips, careful to avoid his eyes. A warmth, not entirely unfamiliar, but unexpected in it’s strength, seemed to fill him. It reminded Dean of huddling under thick blankets in hotel rooms with crappy heat in February. He wanted to pull it around himself and bask until the world outside seemed more inviting. The insects which had seemed so cacophonous minutes earlier now seemed to sing from miles away, and Dean could suddenly feel the steady beating of his own heart and a gentle fluttering in his stomach.  
“Cas,” Dean said again, licking his lips. He’d prayed to Cas with no response for weeks since he’d watched a slow tear of blood trail down the angel’s cheek and reached out to feel only empty air. He never imagined Cas would answer these prayers--a simple calling out. And now, having him suddenly, undeniably here sent a jolt through Dean that he couldn’t begin to explain. He closed his eyes, but he could still feel Cas standing before him; the air buzzed with his presence. Dean’s knees quaked unfathomably.   
“Why now?” Dean asked, throatily, unsure of his own voice.   
“Dean,” Cas tilted his head as if Dean’s question required serious contemplation. A small, wry smile formed on his lips, “When you call my name, it’s like a little prayer.”  
The resonance of the moment dropped away, leaving Dean grasping for something he hadn’t even known was there, the air suddenly void and barren. Wide eyed, he keeled backward, struggling to bring his axe between them.  
Dean bared his teeth, weapon raised, “You’re not fucking Cas.”


	6. Chapter 6

“More’s the pity,” the troll answered with Cas’ voice and Dean wanted to put his fist through his throat and pull out his larynx.  He’d seen that look on the real Cas’ face before, high on souls, full of righteousness and malice, ready to crush Dean as if he hadn’t already.

Dean lunged without thinking and the troll laughed, easily disarming him, and deftly removing the companions he’d stowed in his jacket: knives, flashbang, gun, brass knuckles, roll of pennies, the works.  Dean felt the purr-box come on and even though he knew, he knew it wasn’t Cas, suddenly everything felt right again.  He imagined the hands that pushed him down rather held him up and he went lax and pliable.  It didn’t make sense, but part of Dean didn’t care; he just longed for Cas to really be there, solid and present and not in the wind.

“You humans are always full of good vibrations,” Cas-but-not-Cas murmured in his ear, driving Dean wild in all the wrong ways. “Such wonderful toys.  How could we not play with our food?”

The troll switched off its purr-box, or whatever the hell it was.  Dean’s ears almost rang with all that suddenly wasn’t there.  The emptiness reminded him of the sensation he got whenever Cas blipped off without saying goodbye, or giving any warning, or letting Dean know if he’d ever come back.

Sometimes Dean dreamt of Cas on his own, separate from Cas’ habit of angelic dream walking.  These dreams were rare and precious and coiled so deeply within Dean he could pretend they never happened.  They were full of Dean’s thick hands wandering through buttonholes and a tan coat on the floor.  They tasted like cinnamon and the leather of a belt that once belonged to Jimmy. He always knew when Cas was really there, though.  He always knew because of Cas’ _presence_ , the jolt that passed through him when Cas wafted into a dream or flapped into a hotel room with peeling wallpaper and unidentified stains.  It was this presence the troll manipulated, playing with Dean’s intuitive sense of who Cas was.  And who Dean was.  Son of a bitch.

Cas-but-not-Cas put his hand over Dean’s heart and laughed derisively, “You, Dean, are a one man orchestra.  Your levels are a little off, with that timpani going on and on and on about protecting Sammy.  You’ve been banging that drum for ages. Let’s turn that down,” The troll paused for a moment and Dean yearns for noise, like he can finally hear after standing next to subwoofers after a night at a bar. Sam is a whisper against his skin, easily overpowered by other motions of his soul.  Exhilarated by the freedom and terrified by all the possibilities oscillating beneath the surface, Dean closed his eyes and tried not to pray for mercy.

The troll sneered, “Sam drowns everything else out, makes it hard to hear Cas, banging on his triangle in the corner.  But of course you feel it, have faith in it.  Even with all that noise, even if you don’t want to.”

“You aiming for best monologue or something, Madonna?” Dean hissed, still disoriented.  He worked out what he didn’t know well enough to bottom-line it--something about resonance and energy and using it to read Dean and project what they want to him and some other crap that he didn’t care to understand. More importantly, Dean reasoned, monsters aren’t usually about sociable chatter unless there’s some sort of endgame.

“Mary Sue had a lot of faith, Dean.  In many things.  The most delicious was her faith in herself.  She was very, very capable.” The troll pulled Dean close, pinning one of his hands on his back while holding him in a choke hold. Dean gasped in pain, and the troll breathed heavily on his neck.  It was sensual and terrible and Dean wanted to struggle, but the hold was too strong.  “We had to work overtime to drain it off of her, but we did.  We drank our fill and more, which is fortunate since you’re kind of low in nutrients there.  We’ve got to eat a balanced diet, Dean.  We’re expecting, you know.”

“Mazel tov,” Dean growled gruffly, “When’s the celebratory dinner?”

Swiftly, he stamped on the troll’s instep and savored the crunching of bones.  The troll bellowed in pain and aggravation as Dean wriggled free.  He sensed the change in timbre with the troll hobbled and turned to face his opponent just in time to see the Cas exterior flicker away, revealing the green-grey face and blood red eyes of a she-troll.

Before he could react, the troll compensated kicking up her purr-box. The Cas facade reappeared. Now that Dean expected it he could discern the slight rumble in the troll’s chest, playing through the ground and through her feet, and moving through his legs, melting him like candle wax, making him believe any lie.  Eroding his faith.

“Can you feel him inside you, Dean?” The troll asked, wicked smile playing across Cas’ face, “I can.  You tremble at the sound of his name,” she cocked her head in a Cas-like idiosyncrasy that sounded through Dean’s soul. Part of him could feel her signaling for help, tickling the ground with her one good foot. The troll canted her head with Cas’ face and squinted, palpating whatever she felt in Dean.

“What is it?” A voice in the darkness became a man, another Cas, followed by two more.  They formed a circle around them.

“Ah, our dinner party has arrived,” the first troll cheered, releasing Dean who had plans to break into a run, spring for the flashbang, grab his knife, but got caught in the echo chamber of the surrounding purr boxes and turned to putty.

“Stay, Dean, please stay,” they said, not quite in unison. “I’ll watch over you.”

“I’ll watch over you.”

“I’ll watch over you.”

“I’ll watch over you.”

They bounced the words around him.

“His faith has been broken and rebuilt,” the first Cas-but-not-Cas informed the others. “We’ll break him before dawn”  They nodded slowly, anticipating..  Dean found himself trapped in sound, somehow unable to move. He saw them salivate. He knew he should be run, but couldn’t remember why.  He watched them from a distance as they picked him apart.  They started with his resolve, which even Dean could tell was murky at best.  He came unprepared, it was stupid.  He should have left Purgatory in Purgatory.  He thought of himself at the bottom of a tumbler and he wished he could crawl into a non-existent drink to find an even more non-existent oblivion.  In the moment, it was the only thing he wanted if he survived.

“If you survive?” They cackle jubilantly, and Dean let go.  It was only a matter of time.

His faith in Cas burnt like an ember in his hands, teased him with its light, destroyed him with heat.  Dean tried to remember how to pray, but could only silently open his mouth, words failing once again.

“There’s something else here,” one of them hummed, “Around the angel.  An extra ingredient.”  Dean heard them like a scuba diver, far away, muffled, unimportant.

“Let’s gobble him up,” The others answered.

Part of him thought of Sammy but the thought was hollow, his touchstone rubbed away.

“That old saw,” they snickered.  “Where’d that faith ever get you?  Where’s Sammy now?”

_This wasn’t part of the plan_ , Dean despaired, sinking to his knees.  

He barely registered a far off thunk, a flash of light that stung his eyes, and his own brief hope Castiel had heard his prayers before darkness claimed him.


	7. Chapter 7

He could hear Benny shouting a name when he peeled open his eyes.  His skin stuck painfully to bark where he’d been resting and even turning his head hurt him in innumerable ways.  He knew his stomach had been emptied, but it still roiled threateningly.  He groaned as he tilted toward the edge, spitting as he dry heaved.  Again.

“Andrea!” Benny screamed from below and Dean startled at the sound.  He’d never heard Benny raise his voice.  Never heard him desperate.  

He craned his neck and could barely make out shadows below, could see the ruby glow of trollish eyes and the faint gleam of Benny’s teeth. Benny looked outnumbered and feral.  Dean reflexively wanted to join the fray, but just the strain of holding himself in the tree while looking over the edge made his muscles shake in protest.  He collapsed backwards.

Dean pressed the back of his head to the tree, listening to the sounds of tearing flesh and a snarling he instinctively knew was Benny.  He felt the trolls’ screams more than he could hear them.  Gasping, he looked for stars in a dark sky and closed his eyes when he couldn’t find them.   When he opened them again, Benny crouched in nearby branches, face wet with more than blood. Dean looked down and groped for unconsciousness.   He never wanted to see this.  He dreamt of all the things he wished he could unsee.

  
  


Dean came to with his face in the dirt and it took him a moment to decide he was really awake and not just dreaming of waking. Sometimes he couldn’t tell; nightmares and reality had been interchangeable for far too long. He pushed himself up warily, aware that flashbangs could screw with your equilibrium if your brother’s aim left something to be desired and you were too close to one he lobbed at you.  His ears rang and the world swam slightly, but he seemed to be mostly intact.  Still, when he stumbled to his feet, he hissed with the effort.

Sam rummaged through their packs, probably searching for some granola or a bag of wood chips to munch, morning sun filtering through the trees and dappling his back.  Dean approached gingerly, still accommodating himself to slight vertigo.  His brother glanced his way and tossed him a granola bar.

“What happened to the plan?” Dean asked, voice ragged.

Sam shrugged and dipped the corners of his mouth downward, “Couldn’t get the shot.”  He nodded curtly to the clearing and Dean saw the trolls, faces frozen in rocky agony.  They no longer looked like Cas, but excepting their red-gemstone eyes, Dean could see faces that once passed for human.  He walked to the closest one, laying a hand on a petrified shoulder, feeling the gentle coolness of stone not yet warmed by the sun.  His eyes wandering the length of their bodies, stopping at the stumps of their legs.

“I had to improvise,” Sam explained, gesturing to a pile of feet.

Dean nodded absently.  It was almost an elegant solution, characteristic of Sammy.  Clever.  Efficient.  Coarse.

“Do you think you could get dentals off of these?” Dean mused, fingers running over the troll’s teeth exposed by a silent scream.

“Uh, maybe,” Sam shook his head.  “Why?”

“These things have people who thought they were family.  They deserve to know what happened to them,”  Dean looked at the ground and cleared his throat.  “I’d want to know.  If someone in my family disappeared.”

“Yeah,” Sam said quietly, “Sure.  We’ll call it in when we’re out of town, let the locals decide”

Dean sucked in his lips, biting them both as he turned away from the trolls.  He kicked the dirt absently, scanning for his discarded weapons.  His movements were small, clipped, but somehow dangerous.

“Are you ever going to tell me what happened?” Sam asked softly from somewhere behind him.

Dean turned his head toward his brother, ignoring the traces of dizziness sparked by the movement, “What do you mean?”

“What do you think I mean?  Purgatory. Trolls. Trolls in Purgatory. What the hell happened last night. Take your pick, man,” Sam shrugged broad shoulders, but set his jaw.

Dean raised his hand to the bridge of his nose and felt the warmth of a long exhalation on his palm.

“Let’s just go, man,” he said wearily into his hand. “I need a drink.”He thought of the chill of a glass in his hand, filled with questions he didn’t want to ask, and how each sip drove him closer to emptiness.  He saw the trolls quaffing his uncertainty and pressed his thumb into the curve of his eye-socket, just to remind himself he had survived. Facing away, he stooped to retrieve his brass knuckles, thumbing dirt from the grip.

Sam stared at the back of his brother’s head.  He thought of the expression he’d glimpsed in Dean’s profile as he’d looked toward the sky and wondered if this was the same expression his brother now hid from him, face to the dirt.  He sighed, pushing hair behind his ear.  Sam had always taken refuge in words, revelled in books, and Dean’s patient explanations of how to tie a shoe, or shoot a gun, or talk to a girl.  Sam loved how they could transform the immaterial into something solid and real, but in this moment he understood this was exactly what Dean eschewed.  He saw it in the way Dean didn’t look at him, but gently blew the dust from his brass knuckles that, to Dean, giving voice to the unspeakable look in his eyes made it real.

Sam quietly walked to their packs and tossed his brother a bottle of water.  Dean caught it one handed and gave it a long, inscrutable glare, licking his bottom lip.  He cracked off the lid like he was breaking the neck of a small animal and poured it down his throat.  He gulped it fiercely, like he could wash away the pain that knew no words and the longing that won’t be named.


End file.
